


Gone Fishin'

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Category: Hannibal (TV), Red Dragon - Thomas Harris, True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossover/Fusion, Angst, Community: hannibalkink, Fishing, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Rust and Will are fishing buddies what more can I say, Smoking, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Got any bait?” the tattooed one will inevitably ask. It’s like a little ritual, this small talk. They have had this same conversation every Thursday for the past five years, starting from the day they first met.<br/>“Got any beer?” the one with the scar retorts. He doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder or turn away from the ocean.</p><p>(Fill for a prompt on HannibalKink asking for Will Graham and Rust Cohle meeting and being friends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Fishin'

Two men are already on the pier fishing before the first beachgoers even pull into the parking lot.

Their folding chairs are right next to each other, a cooler between them with a thirty-two pack of Lone Star and bait. They do this every Thursday.

One of them has a scar along his face, jagged and angry-looking despite the obvious age of it and the scruffy facial hair he tries to get to cover it. He’s the better fisherman of them, really puts effort into it. He’s on the pier every morning, but on Thursdays he’s there ‘til sunset. He brings the bait and the cooler, and three times a year he brings his boat and the whiskey so they can go out on the water.

The other has a faded tattoo on his right forearm and grey-blond hair in a ponytail. He doesn’t catch much, if anything at all, but he’s content to sit in his chair and look at the waves, fishing for thought and not for seafood. He brings the beer and sometimes he brings a battery-powered radio.

They don’t seem to ever intentionally plan these Thursdays, but like clockwork, the two of them are always there, from sunrise to sunset. They don’t talk much in general, either, but the silence doesn’t seem uncomfortable for them.

The one with the scar always gets there first, sits down first and baits his hook and casts his line.

A few minutes later, the tattooed one sets down the beer and his chair, and settles in for the day.

“Got any bait?” the tattooed one will inevitably ask. It’s like a little ritual, this small talk. They have had this same conversation every Thursday for the past five years, starting from the day they first met.

“Got any beer?” the one with the scar retorts. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder or turn away from the ocean. 

“I don’t drink.” The tattooed one opens a can of Lone Star and takes a long chug. “Except on Thursdays. Thursday is my day off.” He opens another can and sets it beside the feet of the man with the scar. “And I like to get an early start on my workday, you know.”

“Bait’s in the cooler.”

* * *

Three times a year, they take out the boat. Once a year, the man with the scar is the one who finishes off the entire bottle of whiskey on his own, and the tattooed one has to pilot the boat. Once a year, it’s the tattooed man.

The first time, it was the scarred man’s turn, to drink and tell the same story he’s told the other man half a dozen times since, down to pulling off the stained t-shirt and showing off the heavy, curving scar along his abdomen: _“Ever hear about Hannibal the Cannibal? Ever hear about that FBI agent he framed and gutted?”_

The second time, it was the tattooed man’s turn: _“My daughter, she, uh, she was hit by a car, on our driveway.”_

The third time a year, they go out and celebrate their shared birthday, and both get just drunk enough to be comfortable:

_“Aren’t birthdays morbid? You give your loved ones cake and ice cream and celebrate the fact that they haven’t died yet.”_

_“Well then, congratulations to us. Rust Cohle and Will Graham: not dead yet, though God knows everything on the face of this fucking planet has tried to change that.”_

_“I’ll drink to that.”_

* * *

By the time the sun sets and most of the tourists have left the beach, the two men are down to just three or four beers left and the tattooed one has smoked his way through a pack and a half of cigarettes.

They pack up relatively quickly, and then they walk across the dark sands of the beach to one of the dozen little bars along it, find two open stools at the bar or a booth in the back and tell each other the same stories over and over again, drink a little more, and then part ways until next Thursday.

And come next Thursday, they’ll just do it all again.

**Author's Note:**

> Written, proof-read, and posted in about three hours, so if there are any errors, I really do apologise. I just had the idea for Cohle and Will being fishing buddies post Red Dragon/True Detective s1 finale, and the thought wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. 
> 
> Full prompt can be found [here](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3819.html?thread=6718443#cmt6718443) on HannibalKink.


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